


If I Only Could

by MizJoely, wickedwanton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwanton/pseuds/wickedwanton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A companion tale to MizJoely's "The Fire In Which We Burn", where we see what happens on the other side of  the mirror.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Only Could

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/gifts).



> This Victorian Sherlock Holmes is intended as a hybrid between Doyle's original and the modern. Due to an editing oversight, an entire Doyle tale first went to print with Dr. Watson's first name given as 'James". We've 'borrowed' that oversight. This Dr. Watson did chronicle their adventures, but unfortunately never found a publisher. We've also made use of some of Doyle's other interests in the formation of this tale. I thank the Divine MizJ on never giving up on me or this piece.

PROLOGUE

He was coughing wetly, his eyes tearing up, further blurring his hazy vision. The air had grown heavy and hot, pulling at him, weakening his legs even as he tried to move forward.

Figures rushed past unnoticed. Everything was horrid orange red with dark shadows of corridors radiating outward. No brighter yellow from actual fire, but it had to be near, seconds away from pouring forth. No sense of a way out as the pressure built behind his ears.

He stumbled around a pile of timbers already burnt to embers, trying to listen for alarms, voices, anything but the roaring of the flames. The muffled sound of weak coughing off to his left caught his attention, and he swore he heard his name being called.

He found the door and pulled his way through. Concentric rings of incandesce, interwoven in an elaborate pattern, burned brightly and shimmered the air around a single figure at their centre.

A woman, wrapped in a pale sheet, lay crumpled in the one circle of floor as yet untouched. A mass of chestnut curls hid her face from view and one empty hand, already blistered by the fire, outstretched across the floor toward him from her still form. He could see her chest rise and fall, but she was breathing far too slowly.

He was trying to see a path in the pattern, a way through the maze of combustion, when she began to stir, rolling toward him and sitting up. He tried to tell her not to move, that he would find a way to her, but he couldn’t hear his own voice over the roar of the pyre. 

He watched as panic gripped her, her eyes darting wildly all around as she drew herself into a tight ball. Some sense of recognition, of knowing, fell on him like a lead weight. He had dreamt of her all his life.

Her dark amber eyes met his through the shimmering air and he watched as recognition washed through her as well. She reached out to him, her fear palpable. Unheard, she called his name.

She had to keep still; he had to get her to stop! He would find a way for her to escape, but she had to not move! Words fled as muscle gave way and he went to his knees.

She had reached the small bit farther, but the flames hungrily licked at the sheet pressed tight to her flesh. It raced along her, a frantic lover devouring all that it touched. Her screams radiated, shattering…

January, 1879

He snapped awake on the settee in his Montague Street flat, still feeling the smoke burning in his lungs. He shook for a moment before thrusting the memory away; cursing what his own overactive imagination was capable of torturing him with. He had not dreamt of the girl in ages; thought she was some hormone-addled illusion left behind with puberty. He had a case ongoing, and time should not be wasted sleeping. Splashing water on his clammy face, he prepared to confront Mr. Dunkirk’s duplicitous bookkeeper. 

CHAPTER 1

January, 1879

She had dreamt of grey eyes again, silver-grey eyes framed by raven curls and a profile more like the statues at the British Museum than any living person she had ever met. As always, aspects of the dreams left her warm and slightly breathless. At twenty-three, she was painfully aware the dreams were all she was ever apt to have.

“Margaret!” Mrs. Williams called up the stairs to the attic. “Come get your tea! You’re going to be late!”

She swung her legs from under the mound of blankets, the bare boards cold on her stockinged feet. The redness on her hand still stung from where she had gotten careless mixing up the carbolic acid solution last night. The raw crystals were powerful and she shouldn’t have let them come in contact with her bare skin, but she had been trying to get her bottle refilled before supper. Fifteen grains in three ounces of water could save fingers and possibly lives. Her own burns were a negligible price.

Sleeping in her corsets and petticoats was uncomfortable, but with winter trudging on, they kept her warm as well as allowing her to quickly dress in the mornings. The pale blue frock would do for the day. She preferred the pink, but it seemed to draw unwanted attention from Mr. Reynolds, and that was to be avoided at all costs.

Pinning the bottle in its pouch to her petticoats where it would remain unseen, Margaret made her way down the narrow stairs. 

“Child, you look a fright!” Mrs. Williams pulled out the pins the girl had haphazardly stuck in her hair and grabbed a brush. “Just because the suitors aren’t pounding down the door, you shouldn’t give up entirely!”

“Yes, ma’am.” She fought the urge to disrespectfully roll her eyes. Her marriageable period had passed while she had spent her time and her family’s finances fighting for her father’s life. The battle had been lost on all fronts and she was trying to create some semblance of a future. With nothing to offer a suitor, it seemed foolish to assume one would come calling.

The final pin was placed, scraping her scalp in the process. “There! That’s better!” The older woman held out her own woollen wrap. “Take mine today, child. It’s gone bitter out there.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll return straight from work, I promise!” Margaret grabbed an apple as she made her way out the door.

oOo

Tommy and Sanford must have seen her coming, because they had already started into their broken and off-key version of ‘Sweet Molly Malone’ as she got close to the warehouse. How her co-workers ever got the idea she was Irish was a mystery she would never comprehend. She liked the Irish she knew, they were of good strong stock, but what she knew of her own family history was all within London itself. They had given her the nickname ‘Molly’ and it had stayed with her ever since. At least that was closer to her given name than the one they tried first: ‘Colleen’!

She managed to sidestep Mr. Reynolds at the door. When she had first been hired, the other girls had told her he was both Russian and Roman. It took her less than a day to realize they were referring to the man’s hands. True, tolerating his interest might have its rewards, but frankly she couldn’t see stomaching the costs. Just looking at him made her want to bathe.

“Molly!” Abigail called out from beside the coal stove where the women of the third floor tried to warm themselves before the shift began. “The swelling has gone down and the red went away!” The small woman held out her hand in obvious joy. 

A week earlier when the sewing machine had slipped, driving the needle deep in the poor girl’s finger, Margaret had feared Abigail might lose not only the digit, but the hand as well. She surveyed the healing wound, silently thanking the chemist who had sold her the carbolic crystals and taught her to make the disinfecting solution. The sweet, tarry smell made her feel a bit sick, but being able to help was a blessing.

Mr. Reynolds shattered the air with a bark. “This isn’t a church social, ladies! Get to it!”

oOo

Margaret tried to stand for at least a few minutes out of every hour. Mr. Reynolds did not approve, but the ache in her back became unbearable if she didn’t move. The air had lost its chill after the women had all sewn for a few hours, but frost still clung to the panes. She supposed if the cold got too biting, she could try to visit the men in the pressing rooms. 

She eyed the growing mound of blouses with distaste. The pieces were cut from bolts of fabric upstairs before being brought here. She, Abigail and the rest of the third floor ladies did the primary sewing, and then sent the blouses downstairs via a chute for details like buttons and lace. The ground floor employees, directly under Mr. Reynolds’ watchful eye, looked the work over for uneven stitches or missed buttons. Eventually the blouses made their way to be pressed, boxed and shipped from the basement. 

Due to this arrangement, heat would rise up the stairwell and she walked to it to warm her feet. The coal stove had emptied hours ago and would not be refilled until the next shift. She tried not to look at the clock, superstition telling her it would slow even further. Nothing to be done for it; time was its own mistress. As much as she loathed this work, at least it was an income. It kept a roof over her head and food in her stomach until some other opportunity might come calling.

Ignoring Anne and Prudence who were whispering excitedly at one of the windows, Margaret made her way back to her machine, trying to identify the acrid odour she had smelled near the stairs. Fire was always a concern in a building as old as the factory, but there was no unusual smoke in the air and the scent had been oily, almost greasy. She was astounded at the silence from below. Usually she could hear the men trading bad jokes and abusing terribly off-colour verses while the presses hissed as a background to it all. She dismissed the sense of dread as sheer foolishness; a shameful desire for excitement in the crushing monotony. Perhaps last night’s dream lingered despite her dismissal of the more unpleasant elements. Carefully matching the sleeve to the back of the blouse, she started pumping the treadle with her feet. 

More of the women were joining in peering outside and trading harsh whispers. Mr. Reynolds would be apoplectic if he found them gossiping. Better to keep her head down, ignoring her surroundings by concentrating on her work. Margaret lowered the needle plate and the thread snapped, making her jump a little. She silently cursed her wish for drama. The spool was nearly empty and she would have to get a fresh one. Margaret pulled it from the machine and walked to the storage cabinets at the back of the room.

She spun around at the first scream. Smoke didn’t rise in the stairwell; it billowed in large blackened clouds. By the time she joined the now panicked crowd at the railing, red and orange flames were just visible as they licked their way upward. She closed her eyes, refusing to watch the few foolish enough to still try to climb down that route.

She pulled Abigail away with her. The girl was already coughing, tears running freely down her face. “There’s no other door!”

“What about the chute?” Margaret dragged her over to the flap in the wall that led to the floor below. It was too small for her to pass through, but Abigail should fit. Lord willing, there would be a pile of fabric to catch her. Such things were not discussed in polite company, but she knew all the signs; Abigail was with child.

Margaret lifted her, Abigail clinging with all she had, and got her feet past the flap. “You’ve got to come with me!” Abigail cried.

“I will find you outside.” She kissed her forehead as she took the girl’s hands, holding on as long as she could. With a short prayer, she let go.

She wiped her eyes, trying to clear her vision. The smoke seemed to find some level of its own, just over a foot from the floor. It burned every time she tried to inhale. Coughing seized her, forcing out what little air she could draw in.

Margaret dropped to the floor, mentally cursing her wardrobe. Pulling the skirts as high on her waist as she could, she crawled to the nearest machine. It took several sharp kicks, but the cast iron foot pedal finally came out. Slickness on her hand as she pulled it close; some part had pierced through her shoe and cut into her foot, but she hadn’t noticed it.

She felt more than found the wall. Breaking the window would inevitably draw the smoke, but rescue at this point seemed a foolish dream. She had to try something, anything to escape. The glass broke easily enough, but the bars were too close together for anyone to pass. She wedged the foot pedal between the sill and the grating, trying to find purchase.

A few of the other women seemed to have caught on to what Margaret was attempting, and they came over, grabbing at the metal to assist. She took a moment to return to the fresher air near the floor. Nothing was visible more than a few inches away. Heavy smoke and a deep orange light; roaring came from all directions. For a horrible moment, she wondered if the rest had died already since she could hear no screams or coughs.

She forced herself to her feet, determined to get the deathtrap bars out of the way. The women who were helping seemed to have got the makeshift pry bar in place, but the wood of the sill was giving way before the metal moved. 

As she lifted her arms to help, some force crushed the breath from her lungs. Her upper body slammed against the bars she had been fighting and she couldn’t turn to look. The pressure grew ever stronger, but she couldn’t draw air to scream. The rest of the women had surged forward in a panic, their weight crushing out any attempts to free the window. She felt consciousness slip away, unable to even slide to the floor.

oOo

There was nothing but agony. Some measure of awareness had returned, but it was blessedly distant. Margaret could feel the heaviness of morphine in her veins, but the pain ran too deep to be touched. Simply breathing required every bit of strength she had. 

There were people in the room; she could hear them talking, but could make no sense of their words. She hoped one of the voices was sweet Abigail, safe but sobbing. The baby would be beautiful; Wiggins’ hair, but Abigail’s eyes.

She tried to move, but only once. She had thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, but she had been wrong. At some point, someone dragged the sheet across her skin. She couldn’t feel it, those surface nerves having burnt away while the deeper nerves screamed. She had heard it; the cotton sounded like sandpaper against her burned flesh. The smell wouldn’t stop; sickly, sweet, putrid. Margaret would cry, but she didn’t have the strength. 

Everything eventually went dark and silent, and she guessed it was night. A sharper pain had started in her chest and she recognized the source. She was mourning for herself.

She wanted to curse her own weakness, but there was nothing left to fight for, nothing to hang onto. She had buried all her family. She had friends, but they had lives of their own to contend with. If she was just sick, injured, or damaged, she would find something within herself, fight to hang on. There was nothing.

Once in a book her father showed her, she had seen a block print of Death. Tall, thin, face hidden, draped in a cloak and hood as he emerged from the mists. It was fanciful, but for a moment, she allowed herself to picture that grim image as a suitor, wanting to take her hand. The only thing the grave could offer was suddenly the only thing she wanted: an end to the agony.

As she slipped away with him, she wondered if the hidden figure had silver-grey eyes.

oOo

Sherlock Holmes waited for his planned confrontation outside the tobacconist’s shop. Mr. Dunkirk had been correct in his assumptions that his partner had been cheating him out of part of his profits, but unfortunately, involving the police would first mean convincing their reluctant bookkeeper to produce the real journals. The man was proving to be almost suicidally naive, believing his superior would protect him. Protect him right up to the moment the authorities arrest him, Sherlock thought with a smirk.

A crowd was forming across the street. There were banners hung, people chanting with placards but he ignored them. The burned out shell of a building still smouldered and it reminded him uncomfortably of the nightmare he had endured last night. His Montague Street flat wasn’t far away, and he surmised the odour had triggered the dream. He couldn’t remember much of it: smoke, flame, sweating terrified people trying to flee the conflagration. A common enough occurrence when too many people were trying to live and work in a very limited space. The blight of civilisation taking hold.

She had been in the dream as well; the veiled and vague girl who was some kind of recurring theme in his slumbering mind. A lasting sense of dismay had followed him from his dream state and had adversely plagued him all afternoon. An urgency to take action where none was apparent, a need to temper something beyond his control.

A broad man in a top hat was trying to pull himself up into a hansom cab while bickering hotly with a dark haired, dark eyed individual in an equally expensive suit. The crowd was treating them badly, cursing and shouting threats. The factory’s owner and a politician, undoubtedly. The darker man had a glare in his eye that reminded Sherlock of wild dogs; the thirst for power. No one with that kind of naked desire for power should ever be granted the privilege. Politicians should be like his brother: staid, iron-willed, and utterly boring.

He packed his pipe absently as he dismissed the men and their row from his thoughts. Sleep had always been tricky for him. The morphine helped, but he had been trying to wean himself from it. The lasting effects were beginning to outweigh the benefits. 

The dreams when he was a small child were embarrassing enough; Mycroft had once overheard him describing them to his mother and from that moment forward made a point of teasing every time the topic of brownies, fairies or sprites was raised. It made a theatre trip to see Shakespeare’s “Midsummer Nights Dream” particularly mortifying. Mycroft had called him “Bottom” for months.

The same flashing dark amber eyes and a lilting laugh had followed his dreams into puberty. He could never remember the actual contents of the dreams, just a strange sense of acceptance, rightness. The warmth of a hand in his. Confusion.

When he was fifteen, he had been home for the Christmas holiday when he experienced his single bout of nocturnal emission. Before he could strip the sheets from his bed and smuggle them down into the laundry, his brother caught on. He heard of nothing but ‘Titania’ from him for the rest of the holiday. Veiled threats that he should check under his bed, ‘fearing Oberon’s wrath.’ Trying to look up the phenomena on his own, he learned a new word: succubus. As frustrating as his dream was, he couldn’t envision the girl in it as a demon draining the life from him. Mycroft, however, was another matter.

A familiar face in the gathering crowd caught his attention, and Sherlock waved the man over. “What’s going on, Wiggins?”

“Memorial for the fire victims. My wife lost her best friend in there.” The smaller man’s face tightened. “She got my Abigail out, but passed away over at Saint Bartholomew’s this morning. Burned something horrible. Mercy, really.”

Undoubtedly. Burns were some of the most painful wounds a body could endure. Survival, let alone anything resembling a normal life would have been impossible. “I read about it. How many died?”

“Fourteen, but another six haven’t been found.” Wiggins shook his head. “Hospital’s still got four holding on, but not much hope for them.”

“Why so many?” Industrial accidents seemed to be on the rise, but such a count in a factory staffed by mostly women was truly appalling. It was exactly the kind of thing his brother should be working to stop.

“Owner had the place locked up tight. Scared the girls were running off with his stupid blouses. One way in and out, and bars on the windows.” Sotto voce, he added “Hope the bastard chokes to death on his dinner.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but agree with the sentiment. Abigail came over to take her husband’s hand, and he was unsure what to say. “My sympathies,” he ventured.

Abigail gave a ghost of a smile, nodded and bowed her head. Her eyes were hauntingly red and swollen. Sherlock hoped the trauma would not affect the child.

“Mr. Holmes, you know I don’t like to pry, but you’ve got to take better care of yourself. You look like a skeleton in that suit.” Wiggins was trying to lighten the mood and it looked like he was the target. “I know you; you get busy and forget to eat. Need to find you a wife like mine to take care of you.”

“I haven’t found a woman mad enough to tolerate me.” Sherlock tried to use an appropriate smile. “I’m sure I would tax your dear Abigail quite beyond her limits.”

The girl blushed and Wiggins seemed delighted. “Well, find a lodger or something, man! World is far too cold to face alone!” As they walked away, Sherlock was sure Wiggins thought his next comment was unheard. “Bloody toff needs a wet nurse!”

He smiled at the sheer cheek of it. Still, a lodger was an interesting thought. No space in Montague Street, but when his lease came due, perhaps relocating would be in order.

Dr. Dunkirk’s disloyal bookkeeper emerged from the bakery and Sherlock followed him without a sound.


End file.
